


The 'This Is Why You Take Back-Up' Affair

by james



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Character, Established Relationship, F/M, Humor, M/M, Open Relationships, Supernatural Horror Lite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26941561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/pseuds/james
Summary: Napoleon goes to meet an informant.  Illya rescues him.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 8
Kudos: 61
Collections: Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!





	The 'This Is Why You Take Back-Up' Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sweety_Mutant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweety_Mutant/gifts).



Waverly would have told him to wait for backup, but Napoleon knew that some things were better done in private. Besides, he could handle himself just fine, especially when meeting a beautiful woman who had promised to provide information that U.N.C.L.E was desperate for: the last known location of THRUSH scientist, Dr. Forbes. He'd left a message for Illya, naturally, because he was a highly competent agent and confident in his ability to handle himself, but he wasn't entirely stupid.

Napoleon arrived at the address provided him over the phone, and he looked up at what had once been a gorgeous Georgian-style home. It was still grand, but old, and it looked as though it hadn't seen a groundskeeper in years. The windows were clean and clear, and the paint on the shutters looked good, if not new. So, perhaps the lovely Lady Marguerite du Compte simply didn't go outside much. He had no idea what she actually looked like, but from the sound of her voice and the very charming way she'd laughed at his joke, he just had a feeling she would be gorgeous.

He tugged at his jacket lapels, disguising the brush along his waist to ensure his pistol was in place, and strode up to the door. He knocked loudly enough to be heard if the lady of the house was in the upper floors – though she had told him promptly at four o'clock, which it was.

Perhaps they would have an early supper, Napoleon thought to himself, wondering if he might have the opportunity to dine with the lady and have a delightful chat over some good wine. Of course it didn't escape him that he also had the opportunity to stay the night, if she wished, which was entirely the reason he hadn't called for backup.

Well, and did he really need assistance handling a beautiful lady, even if she did turn out to be working for THRUSH.

The door swung open and he smiled – then stopped. There was no one there. He took a cautious step inside, then called, “Hello?”

“Hello, Mr. Solo.” He heard the same lovely voice that had spoken to him on the phone. “Do forgive me for not meeting you at the door,” she continued as Napoleon stepped further into the foyer, looking around. 

Aha – he spotted the small speaker, sitting on a table. It didn't explain how she'd opened the door, but perhaps she was using a remote-controlled magnet. Napoleon glanced around, looking for such, but didn't immediately see anything.

“My condition prevents me from moving around too much,” she said, her tone just as lush and cultured as it had been on the telephone. 

Napoleon smiled. “Not to worry, Lady du Compte. Is there a room I should meet you in?”

“Follow the hallway directly ahead, past the stairway. There's a parlour in the back, the third door.”

“On my way,” Napoleon gave the speaker a tiny tilt of his head, just in case she also had a camera to show her her visitors.

He proceeded down the hallway, through a sitting room, past an open door which proved to be a library. Everything had the appearance of being kept tidy, if not completely clean – as one might expect of a lady who had limited mobility and no staff to help her. Judging by the fine, but not heavy, layer of dust he surmised that she had a service come in, perhaps once a month or every other, and that they were due in the next few days.

He continued on past two closed doors, which were probably a dining room and kitchen. He didn't pause to check behind them – not more than pausing to listen for the sound of movement. He found the third door open and stepped into what had once been a very fine parlour, with large windows looking out over the garden. It, too, looked like it needed a gardener, but the over-growth seemed natural and wild and not out of control. The furniture was old and the upholstery faded, but the indoor plants were healthy. Flowers in a plain vase were fresh and gave an air of someone who was doing their best in limited circumstances. 

All in all the room managed to feel comfortable, if a bit cool, and the view to the garden outside made the room feel quite charming. Napoleon shivered, but couldn't recall just how cold it had been outside. Perhaps the large windows kept this room cooler, he thought.

He turned his attention from the rest of the room to the chaise lounge he'd seen as he'd come in. “My Lady,” he began, but there was no one sitting there. He spun in a full circle. The room was empty.

Perhaps there was another speaker. Was the lady embarrassed at her appearance, if she'd been sick for long? He didn't see a speaker and the Lady du Compte wasn't saying anything.

Napoleon felt a chill run up the back of his neck, and he found himself thinking, very suddenly, that he hoped Illya returned early and found his message sooner rather than later. He turned back towards the windows, intending to head for the door that led outside – and stopped.

It was dark outside. Where the sun had still been above the horizon moments ago, now it was dusk. Napoleon rushed towards the door and found it locked. Locked...from the outside? He rattled the doorknob, then gave it up and turned back to grab at one of the small tables, intending to fling it towards the window to break his way out.

He stopped again, because there in the middle of the parlour, was a woman. Tall and pale, dark hair, and very striking. Her dress was deep red, almost black, and her make-up was applied perfectly, neatly done paint on her eyelids and lips, both a deep, dark green. Her expression was one of amusement.

“I prefer that you do not break my window,” she said, and her voice seemed to purr. She moved towards him, smoothly, almost gliding, and Napoleon backed up, quickly. There was nothing about her that spoke of a physical condition that would prevent her from doing anything about the house or yard. 

She was still smiling. In any other circumstance, he would have loved to stay and stare at her face, offering as many compliments as she liked.

“I apologise,” Napoleon stammered, trying to ignore the way his heart was pounding. “I found the door locked and...I suppose my instincts got the better of me.” He gave her a relaxed smile, wondering if perhaps he was imagining things. Maybe there were trees, blocking the light? Only they hadn't been when he'd first stepped into the room. He'd seen sunlight.

Hadn't he?

The lady was still coming forward and Napoleon felt his legs hit up against the chaise lounge. She was smiling like – well, like she was thinking about eating him. Which, to be fair, was on Napoleon's list of top ten things to do with a beautiful woman.

Normally.

Right at the moment he might have preferred being back at the hotel with Illya. Illya might not be quite as adventurous in bed as Napoleon sometimes enjoyed, but his charms certainly made up for his lack of interest in _convoluted positions_ as he'd called them, with that disdainful little sniff of his.

Napoleon tried to leap over the lounge and found he couldn't move.

Lady du Compte moved even closer, close enough to press herself up against him. Napoleon couldn't raise his hands to push her away, couldn't take his eyes away from hers, and...was she....?

An electric light switched on and Napoleon blinked. She was gone and there was Illya standing in the doorway. Napoleon breathed out, grateful to discover he could move, again.

“Thank you,” he began, stepping nervously away from the chaise. “Although I'm not entirely sure what just happened.” There was no sign of the Lady du Compte though he was fairly certain he'd hadn't imagined her.

He saw that Illya was regarding him with a very unimpressed look. It was one he knew well, and almost never took to heart. “Marguerite du Compte died one hundred and sixty-five years ago,” Illya said, dryly. “There are police records of people coming to this house and never being seen again.” He paused, then added, “Which you would have known had you bothered to do a minimum of research.”

Napoleon waved a hand at him, as though he hadn't nearly been about to be...something. By whatever that was. “Let's get out of here and you can lecture me back at the hotel.”

Illya just 'hmmed' at him, but turned and walked out of the room, Napoleon close behind. They made their way out of the house – every room brightly lit, now, with electric light. Napoleon frowned. “Did you get rid of her by turning on the lights?”

“The electric power had been disconnected,” his partner said calmly. “I re-connected it.”

That...didn't make much sense. “So then, what was she? A ghost? A vampire? Some kind of spirit that can only live in darkness?” Napoleon wasn't quite sure he believed that those words were actually coming out of his mouth. On the other hand, he was the one who'd been about to get killed. Eaten? Turned? Disappeared, at the very least.

Illya glanced over his shoulder as they neared the front door. “I don't know. I don't care to stick around and find out.”

“Then how did you know turning on the lights would get rid of her?” If, indeed, there had been anything other than his imagination. Or illusion. Perhaps they should get U.N.C.L.E. to come back and check the place out. Napoleon thought he might want a glass of whiskey and forget all about the Lady du Compte.

With a furtive glance, Illya led him out of the house. “As a boy I went to a state-run school.”

Which was absolutely not an answer, and was also something Napoleon already had surmised. He didn't press, however, knowing that Illya would eventually explain.

“During the summer, boys were sent to the country, to help in the farms. Small towns.” He gave Napoleon another glance, like he was saying something that shouldn't be repeated. “In the evening, or on weekends, people would gather around to drink and tell stories. Folktales. Superstitious nonsense, of course,” he added in a flat tone that said nothing. Napoleon knew what it meant. Illya shrugged and didn't say anything more. 

Napoleon knew what he wasn't saying, recognised the way Illya had learned, no doubt young, how not to say things that would get him into trouble. Whether it was admitting he liked men, or admitting he believed in ghost stories told by peasant folk – well, and it wasn't like Napoleon could claim ghosts weren't real, now, could he.

Or whatever she was. 

Illya didn't stop as they exited the gates, hurrying across the sidewalk towards their rental car, parked in front of the house. Napoleon looked back; the house was dark and looming now – and it was clearly late in the evening. Napoleon checked his watch, but the second hand wasn't moving. The time read three twenty two. He frowned. 

Instead of asking just how long he'd been inside, Napoleon asked lightly, “What, your scientific curiousity doesn't want to know what she was?” 

Pausing next to the driver's door, Illya said dourly, “My scientific curiosity does not extend to letting you be killed.”

Napoleon grinned at him. “Really? That's not what you said in Bora Bora last year.” He hadn't really been in danger of dying during that mission, not precisely, but he had appreciated Illya's rescue all the same. He'd also appreciated climbing into bed with him afterwards. 

Illya glared at him – then nodded. “You're right. Go back inside and I will switch off the power. Please take notes.”

Napoleon just laughed. He climbed into the car and found himself suddenly feeling safe as the lingering dread and confusion faded. Which meant he was definitely in the mood for something else. Napoleon had exactly one reaction to being in mortal danger, and it was one he rather enjoyed – although he also didn't mind _not_ being in mortal danger, first.

He looked over at Illya, who was watching him with a small smile. It was the one which made Napoleon regret how careful they had to be, because otherwise he would have leaned over and kissed him.

“Back to the hotel for supper?” Napoleon asked, as casually as he could as his heart began to race for a much better reason.

“Back to the hotel, yes,” Illya said, and his smile didn't dim. “I don't know that it's _supper_ you want.”

“I imagine I will want food eventually,” he allowed. “But I suppose breakfast will do just fine.”


End file.
